Scurrilous Stories
by GeneFlowers
Summary: After Carlisle reveals Mary's indiscretions with Pamuk in his newspaper, Mary must confront Carson, the man she sees as a second father, about her indiscretions. Because it needs to happen!


**A/N: I started this a few months ago, because it needed to be written; Carson is, arguably, the most important person in Mary's life who does not yet know about (or rather, believe) the Pamuk incident, and he's probably also one of the people who Mary would expect to take it hardest. I really hope we get a Carson/Mary Pamuk scene like this in series 3. Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything, Downton Abbey belongs to Julian Fellowes.**

Scurrilous Stories

Carson could not believe it as he opened the newspaper that morning. It had been handed to him by a cheerfully smirking Thomas, with the words "'Ave a look at that, Mr Carson. Think there might be something there to interest you." Then, still smirking, he had sauntered off with his hands in his pockets, probably to smoke one of those disgusting cigarettes with Miss O'Brien.

Staring at the headline (LICENTIOUS LADY AND HER TURKISH DEAD DIPLOMAT) and the accompanying pictures of _his favourite _Lady Mary and Kemal Pamuk, the Turkish diplomat who had been so admired by all the ladies before his untimely death, all Carson had felt was shock. Shock and disbelief. Every sense, the intuition that he relied on every day as a butler, told him this could not be true. How could this _possibly _be true? In his head, Lady Mary Crawley was still that little girl who had come into his parlour announcing she was to run away, asking if she could take some silver to sell, and demanding that she paid him interest (in the form of a kiss) for the sixpence he gave her. But more than that, she was a Lady. The finest example of a Lady that Carson had ever laid eyes on. To think that _she_, of all people, could have…had a man in her room (he could barely think it) outside marriage, and not only that, but someone she had only just met…well it was simply impossible. He _refused _to believe it. He would more easily believe the Dowager Countess had taken this man to her bed than _his _Lady Mary.

But after the initial shock and disbelief, came anger. Anger at Thomas, not only for showing him the paper (he would have seen or heard about it soon enough anyway), but for being so _gleeful_ about it. Did the man have no respect? Carson smiled grimly to himself; of course he didn't. Ten years working over the man had taught him that. But still, there was a difference between a lack of respect and taking active pleasure in someone else's pain. Carson remembered the tragic miscarriage of the Countess' son, and how indecently pleased with himself Thomas had seemed to be, winding up William until the normally mild-mannered footman had been provoked to attack his counterpart.

He also felt anger, no, rage at _Sir _Richard Carlisle, a barely repressible, shaking, trembling rage so rare the Carson, the kind of rage he would, under any normal circumstances, regard as highly unprofessional. The man clearly held a grudge against Lady Mary after being jilted by her at New Year. The man owned newspapers, he was obviously very powerful (the type of uninherited, undeserved power that Carson frowned upon), and God knew, the man had proved himself to be underhand and scheming before, when he had tried to bribe Anna to spy on Lady Mary…but he had no idea that he could be capable of this…_disgusting_ pack of lies, flung at Lady Mary to discredit her and throw her off balance when she was finally happy and engaged to Mr Crawley. Although he did not approve of violence, and would certainly regard any act of violence as unacceptable unless taking place during the course of a war, if Carlisle stood in front of him now, he would quite happily (and in a dignified manner, of course) throttle the man. And yet, a tiny, traitorous part of his mind was wondering if, possibly, some part of it could be true. After all, he had received a letter containing information about similar scurrilous stories concerning Lady Mary years ago, long before Sir Richard intruded into their lives. Then Carson shook himself. He prided himself on not listening to gossip or rumours, and certainly not believing them until he had impeachable proof. He would not change his ways now.

"So you've seen it then?" Mrs Hughes' voice made Carson jump; he had been so engrossed, in the story and his thoughts, that he had not noticed her enter their parlour.

"Yes. I have," he said shortly, standing up and placing the poisonous paper on his desk with just a little more force than necessary.

"What do you think of _Lady _Mary now, Mr Carson?" she asked, the merest hint of sarcasm tracing her tone. But it was enough.

Enough for Carson to draw himself up to his full height, and say, with indignation radiating from every pore, "You're not saying you…actually _believe _these…these _vicious _rumours?"

Mrs Hughes backtracked slightly. "Well, not for certain, maybe. But you've got to admit, Mr Carson, there is something fishy about the situation. I always thought so."

"I…I did not ask what you thought!" Carson was sputtering with rage as he turned on his heel and stamped stiffly out of the room.

"I thought you did," said Mrs Hughes, quietly, almost sadly, to herself.

Carson was not angry at Mrs Hughes. Not really. He was angry at himself, because when Mrs Hughes had insinuated that she _may _believe it, his resolve to regard it all as utter rubbish had started to waiver. Making his way into the kitchen to pick up the tea tray for upstairs, he tried to forget all about it, and focus on what he was good at; being a butler.

"Morning, milord," Carson spoke as he pushed the door to the dining room open and made his way through, laying the tray on the sideboard and pouring Lord Grantham some tea. Fortunately, none of the others had come down yet, but Lord Grantham sat, fiddling with his sleeves and looking troubled. Carson wondered if he had already heard.

"Are you all right, milord?" Carson asked, hoping he wasn't breaching the unspoken code between family and servants by asking after his Lordship.

"Yes, yes I'm fine, Carson," muttered Lord Grantham distractedly, "do you have the morning papers?"

Carson stiffened imperceptibly, and there was a minute pause before he answered "I do, milord," but made no move to pass them to his Lordship.

A full minute passed, before Lord Grantham said, "Well, give them over here, man," a little perturbed. His nerves were already frayed after Mary had told him about the note she had received last night, and he did not need Carson trying to keep him from seeing how bad the damage was.

"Of course, my Lord," said Carson, mentally berating himself for being so unprofessional, "My Lord, before you read them, I think you should know…"

"Yes, Carson?" asked Robert patiently.

"They…well, I don't like to say this, but they…contain some rather horrid stories relating to this family. To…to Lady Mary, in fact," announced Carson, feeling as if he had betrayed her in some way.

"So you've read them, have you?" Robert asked, almost genially. Carson nodded.

"I do apologise, my Lord," Carson said hurriedly, "and I'm sure the rumours aren't true…"

"It's no problem. Thank you Carson, that will be all," said Robert, dismissing the loyal butler with a wave of his hand as he turned to the newspaper laid in front of him.

Carson wondered about his Lordship's reaction as he left the dining room and made his way back towards the servant's stairs. He obviously knew about it already, from the way he had reacted when Carson had told him what the newspapers contained, but Carson could not fathom how. Had Sir Richard posted a threatening letter concerning this story? Or had Lady Mary told him that such a thing might happen? Was it true? Was that why Lord Grantham had so calmly accepted what Carson had told him, and what he was about to read in the paper, because it was true? Carson shook his head; of course not; his Lordship was a dignified aristocrat; he would behave with dignity in front of his servants, he was sure.

Carson's train of thought was interrupted by a low, pitiful keening coming from the seldom used music room to his left. Not wanting to disturb anyone in their sorrow, but feeling it his responsibility to check that they were alright, he pushed the ajar door fully open, thinking it was probably one of the maids. So he was shocked to find, as the light poured in from the window to highlight her deep brown hair and elegant frame, that it was Lady Mary making a sound like a wounded animal.

As she slowly turned round to see who had interrupted her, Carson quickly said "I'm so sorry, milady, I didn't realise it was you," as he tried to walk quickly backwards out of the room.

"Carson," Mary whispered, smiling gently, trying to pretend she had not just been weeping pitifully, although her red-rimmed eyes gave her away.

Carson nodded, smiled gently back, as if she were a small animal that he didn't want to frighten away. Like he had when she was baby, he thought painfully. "I'll just be going, then, milady," he said quietly.

"Stay, Carson," pleaded Mary, strength returning to her voice, just a little. Carson nodded and stepped back into the room. "And close the door, please," she said meekly.

The door closed. Mary stared at Carson for a moment, not quite sure what to say, how to begin. "Are you all right, milady?" he asked. "Only…" He did not like to admit that he had heard him crying; she was a proud creature, and he knew it would wound her pride if she knew he had caught her.

Poor Carson, thought Mary. He had always had such faith, such trust in her. He believed in her when nobody else did. He was like a second father, but sometimes Mary thought (wished, even) he was more like a father to her than her real father ever had been. And now she had to shatter his faith in her, everything he believed about her, everything he believed; because she couldn't keep Carson in the dark about this. She had to tell him the truth, even if it cost her his respect, his loyalty. After all, everyone else knew. Anyone who picked up a paper would know by now, but Mary knew that Carson wouldn't believe a word of it until it came from her lips.

"Oh Carson," she said, letting the tears take over her again, rushing to the man she considered a second father, who had always been there to wipe away her tears and restore her confidence in herself. He took her gently in his arms and slowly stroked her long, brown hair, nearly as soft as the day she was born.

After a few minutes letting her cry into his livery, her heartrending sobs subsiding into little hiccups and sighs, he felt it safe to ask, "Is this about the _stories _in the paper this morning?" making sure to emphasise the word '_stories_' so she knew he did not believe any of it. Mary hiccupped, and nodded into his chest.

"Well, milady, I do not believe a word of it, and, at risk of being rude, you are a fool if you think _anyone _who matters will."

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Mary looked up at him and let out a hollow laugh which soon turned to wracking sobs, even more desperate and uncontrollable than before. It broke Carson's heart to see her like this, but before he could offer any more words of comfort, Mary managed to say, between sniffles, "But don't you see, Carson? It's true, it's all true!"

Carson froze and withdrew as if he'd been burned. "I beg your pardon, milady?" he said, eyebrows knitting together, sure he'd heard wrong.

Mary stepped back too so she could take in the entire height of the butler. A sad little smile graced her lips as she said, "Oh, Carson, you always believed in me, didn't you? Far more than I deserved." She let out what should have been a very Lady Mary laugh, except that her voice shook. "Far more than I deserve," she whispered, last, eyes moving to peer demurely down at her feet, as if she couldn't bear to look into Carson's eyes anymore, couldn't bear to see the disappointment reflected in them.

Carson was flummoxed. "But…forgive me, milady…but I thought it was just…_that man_," Carson could barely say his name, "_Sir _Richard spreading malicious rumours to besmirch the family…and more importantly, _your_," he added kindly, eyes twinkling, "name. I thought he had a grudge against you, for throwing him over."

"Well, all that is true," concurred Mary, nearly smiling at Carson's continued refusal to believe in her shame, even after she herself had told him, "but, the worst part is, every word printed on those papers this morning is true, and I could not deny _those_ stories," she swallowed with distaste, "without being untrue to myself and my actions. It's as Sir Richard himself once said: everything in his papers is the truth; it may be told from a certain perspective, but he's not in the business of printing lies." She shook her, disgusted; at Richard, at herself. Carson watched her speak with sad, sad eyes. He believed it now; how could he not, when Mary had just confirmed it so completely herself, with no shred of denial. But he could not, no, _would not_ believe that _his _Lady Mary was to blame, at least not completely for what had happened that night, so many years ago.

"I suppose you'll want to leave now," Mary said, a touch of that trademark withering humour returning to her tone. "It must be so hard to see your favourite Crawley sister shown up for what she really is; a shameless harlot. You know, thought I could bear the derision of the servants; the looks they would give me, the comments they'd make behind my back, when they believed I was out of earshot; how they would whisper that it was beneath their station to serve me, to attend to me." Carson's mind immediately went to Thomas and O'Brien. "But then I didn't figure you into the equation; the disappointment in your eyes whenever you looked at me, the way I'd destroyed everything you've believed in, and worked for, since before I was born. How silly of me!" She laughed another hollow laugh. "After all, you were always the one whose opinion mattered most to me; mattered at all, really, downstairs at least. Well, apart from Anna, of course," she added almost as an afterthought; after all, Anna had known all along, and never judged her.

Throughout her entire speech, Carson's expression had been torn between terribly, terribly sad for Mary, and the pain and pressure she continued to inflict on herself, and involuntary almost-amusement at the seriousness of her speech. It was serious, of course, but it reminded him forcibly of Mary making a long, solemn speech as a child, telling him how she had slapped Edith for stealing her toy dog and burying it in the garden, but that she was very, very sorry for hitting Sybil when she had found it for her but then proceeded to play with it as reward for unearthing her sister's special toy. After that, she had burst into tears, and Carson had knelt down to 8 year old Mary's level, looked her in the eye, and told her very seriously that he was glad she was sorry, as she was in the wrong, but the important thing was that she always apologise when she was in the wrong.

As she told him how important his opinion was to her, his eyes twinkled and a slight smile returned to his face, as much as it ever did to the poker-faced butler. How could he possibly be angry at her, or even disappointed, when she was the same Lady Mary, the same little girl, with the proud chin and the stubbornness, but underneath apparent conceit and trappings of her class that everyone else saw, a heart of gold. And how could he judge her when he knew nothing of the details of the whole affair? (Not that he wanted to know.) And how could he lose his good opinion with her over a mistake in her past, when he had made mistakes in his past, too?

He told her so. "We've all made mistakes in the pasts, milady," he said, spreading his hands helplessly. "Including myself."

"Really? You? Surely not, Carson!" He nodded his head, gravely. "Well, I'm shocked." Mary's smile was genuine now, teasing Carson at the possibility of him having 'a past' such as she. She almost giggled at the absurdity of it.

Her smile disappeared. "I bet you've never made as big a mistake as I did."

"I wouldn't know, milady," Carson's deep, reassuring voice warmed her through as he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, "I know nothing of what happened that night."

"Honestly, Carson, don't you _read_ the papers?" she said in an imitation of her haughty self, the self-mockery obvious as she arched one slender eyebrow.

However, Carson did not respond to her wit, as his brow had suddenly furrowed, look turning troubled.

Mary took in Carson's expression and her own immediately sobered. "Has the full impact of my actions finally hit you, then, Carson?"

But it was not Mary's actions that were concerning Carson, but rather his own words. He remembered the time, no more than a few months after the…event…when he had received a letter about Lady Mary's indelicacy, and had reported it to Lady Grantham, calling them 'scurrilous stories'. Well, they _were _scurrilous stories, Carson thought. Just because they were true, didn't make the gossip any less unsavoury. Then he wondered whether this was an opinion he would have partaken in prior to Lady Mary's admission, or whether he was simply biased in his favour. No, he decided. He would always have held this opinion, but perhaps for different reasons. Previously he would have frowned upon the publishing of such scandalous gossip because it encouraged the readers of whichever shoddy newspaper it was published in to make light of such iniquitous behaviour, and perhaps even make it seem socially acceptable; but now, he just felt anger that this one, insignificant man, who had no aristocratic connections whatsoever, and had risen from nothing, had caused and could continue to cause pain to his beloved Lady Mary. Carson, as a rule, did not believe in or condone violence; it did not solve anything (just look at Bates' false accusation, he thought) and, what was more, it was uncouth and symbolic of a poor upbringing. However, at this moment, looking at Lady Mary's sad, defeated, self-despising eyes, he almost wished Mr Matthew had finished Sir Richard off at Christmas.

Then he remembered how he had responded to Ethel's scandalous behaviour. What was it he had said? '_Men will always be men, but for any young woman to let her judgement so desert her..._' Had he really believed that? Of course he had. He was the last bastion upholding honour and propriety in a world that was constantly becoming more and more baffling. But now, faced with Mary's tearstained face, his memories of her at every age, from tiny toddler, to perplexed (but elegant, always elegant) teenager, to the young, perfectly formed woman she had appeared to him until today. No. _Still _appeared to him. No matter what her mistakes, Lady Mary was still a paragon of everything Carson held dear.

Mary could bear the silence from her favourite butler no longer. "Carson, please say something. Even if it's only how disappointed you are."

Carson looked up into Mary's eyes, and she was surprised to see the small smile that was playing around his lips. "Does Mr Matthew know?"

It was not what Mary was expected at all, and she could not hide the surprise as she said, "Why yes, I told him at Christmas, not long before I threw Richard over."

Carson's twinkling lips became a full-blown smile, one rarely seen by any inhabitant of Downton Abbey. God knew, he had not liked the boy to start with (because he had been a young, middle-class upstart, but more because he had, in Carson's eyes, stolen Lady Mary's rightful inheritance), and his cause had not been helped by breaking Lady Mary's heart - not once, but twice - but his actions at Christmas had redeemed him greatly, and his determination to marry Mary despite her past indiscretion proved to him, once and for all, that he was worthy to marry the girl he considered a daughter.

"What?" asked Mary, a mystified smile on her lips as she took in Carson's expression.

Carson shook his head. Then he said "He has my blessing. You both deserve all the happiness in the world, especially after everything you've been through."

Mary was thrown, for a moment, by the turn the conversation had taken, but quickly recovered to reply, at lightning speed, "Why, Carson, are you saying that you are allowing Matthew and I to marry?"

Carson blushed, and said "I…know it's not my place my Lady, but…he has finally proved his worth to me."

"I was only teasing, Carson," she smiled, tapping him lightly on the arm; "after all, you are like a second father to me." Her eyes sparkled with earnestness and love, and her expression was reflected in Carson's eyes. The usually unflappable butler blushed again, for the second time within a minute. Then Mary's countenance turned serious again. "Do you really forgive me, then, Carson?"

Carson smiled. "You are like a daughter to me. There is nothing you could do that I could not forgive. And…forgive me for saying so, but…you are not the first, and I doubt you shall be the last. But…you are special, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Besides, there are worse things."

"Surely not, Carson," she gave a watery smile, trying not to let her voice crack. However, Carson felt the sentiment behind her words, and his eyes crinkled. "Thank you." And she had never been more sincere in her life than when she said those two short words.

They shared a moment. Then Mary spoke again, "Carson, on the subject of Matthew and I…" she stopped, apprehensively.

"Yes?" said Carson, smiling encouragingly.

"Well, I was wondering, since you are my second father…whether you would agree to walking me down the aisle…with my father, of course."

Carson was blown away, rendered utterly speechless by this wonderful, contrary girl. "I…well, yes, of course. I would be…absolutely honoured."

"Oh, Carson, how good you have always been to me." Mary hurried to embrace her favourite servant and second father, and they hugged tightly (propriety for once forgotten by both), Carson, who cried even more rarely than Lady Mary, had to struggle to prevent a lump rising in his throat.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed, please give me feedback, and let me know if there are any typos/bits where it feels repetitive (I wrote this in two chunks at least a month apart). **


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